Semper Vigilans
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: "NCIS: Season 12: Episode 14: Cadence". Honor Corps has kept order on post at RMA since 1941, and its alumni include some of the most famous and successful graduates in Remington's history. But with insiders and outsiders both causing trouble, changes have to be made.
1. Chapter 1- The Test

**Chapter 1- The Test**

* * *

Evan Eriksson was a solidly-built, stocky boy, of average height, and he was easily one of the most respected boys in the Class of 2016. Not the most well-known, but everybody who did either liked him or knew better than to trifle with him. He was even-tempered, difficult to make angry, but the mere threat of his anger was nearly always enough to make the one it was directed at reconsider. Eriksson was a Cadet Staff Sergeant, a squad leader within Charlie Company, and he was working on a history class assignment in his room during 1st CQ, Call to Quarters or simply study hall in civilian terms, when Nicholas Golan came in.

Blond, green/gray-eyed and standing at five-foot-nine, Nicholas Golan might not have been the strongest member of the Corps of Cadets, but he was beyond a doubt one of the smartest. He was well-known for his idealistic, emotional embrace of the military lifestyle, and he was an outspoken, tenacious opponent of bullies in the barracks. He had first come to prominence in his first semester three years ago, when he had squared off with a football player a foot taller and considerably stronger than he was.

**XX**

The football player had been cruelly mocking a skinny younger cadet in a side room under the main administration and mess hall building, Collins Hall, knocking the boy's head against one of the vending machines while two of his buddies looked on, laughing.

Up till then, Golan, leaning up against the wall near a window, had gone unnoticed. He was the only other boy in the room, and he hadn't even merited a glance when the three athletes had come in.

But the blond had pushed off the wall, crossed the room in an incredibly short time, and placed one outstretched hand against the lead athlete's shoulder. The taller boy was considerably stronger, and yet Golan had caught him off guard and pushed plenty hard enough to send him staggering- he almost fell down.

And when the big football player, standing less than a foot from him and flanked by two of his friends, had begun to bluster and make threats of what would happen if Golan did that again, Golan stared up at him, hands on his hips, looking him straight in the eye. And he'd said, "You'll have to kill me to mess with that kid again."

It wasn't something you heard a teenage boy say every day. The incident had been heard of by practically every one of the one hundred and fifty boys there that summer, and it had made Golan famous within their ranks overnight. Like it or not, he had suddenly become a public figure, a boy every other cadet knew. He was all over the school in a day, it seemed, and never failed to step in when he felt something needed to be done.

Many younger cadets loved him, and barracks bullies soon found it much more convenient to pick on somebody when Nicholas Golan wasn't in the room. Golan could be difficult to get along with, and he had fewer friends than the typical cadet did. But he was generally respected, and his good relations with the faculty and staff made him difficult to touch, though Golan wasn't seen as a teacher's pet or a snitch. He was just someone the staff liked and most cadets respected, and if that came at the price of being a little distant compared to the other boys, that was fine. In fact, Golan preferred it that way.

**XX**

Tonight, wearing his blue-gray Class B service uniform, Golan came into Eriksson's room without hardly making a sound. He weighed 155 pounds and stepped lightly; he sometimes startled even staff members by how quietly he could come into the room. It wasn't even intentional much of the time; Golan just stepped with a light foot. Eriksson noticed him, though; with the lights in the room and in the hallway on, filling the whole barracks with white light, it was hard to sneak up on anybody.

Golan walked over to the first desk, dropping easily into the padded wooden chair Eriksson's roommate usually occupied. He held a textbook in his hands, and smiled at Eriksson as the stocky boy glanced his way.

"You busy right now, Eriksson?" he asked.

"Working on this paper for Major Harrison," Eriksson answered, somewhat hoping Golan wouldn't take too much time with whatever he wanted. And he did seem to want something; his eyes were alive, dancing with an oddly intense energy; it was a look he only got if he had something on his mind that really, really interested him.

"Well, actually," Golan answered, taking a moment to check for dust on his black cloth shoulderboards, each bearing the three silver discs of a Cadet Captain, "It was Major Harrison I wanted to talk to you about. Sort of."

Giving up on his writing for the moment, Eriksson set down his pencil, brown eyes regarding Golan's green/gray ones. "So what's up?"

The blond threw a glance back toward the door. "Mind if I close that?"

"It's second CQ's, man," Eriksson answered. "Captain Finch isn't gonna go for it."

"Well, good thing I asked Captain Finch about it when I stopped by the Commandant's Office after 3rd Mess this afternoon," Golan grinned, winking. He got up and closed the door, came over to the chair he'd been sitting in and sat back down.

"Seriously, man," Eriksson said, a little patience starting to slip. "I got homework I gotta do. What's up?"

"Oh, don't worry," the blond answered quickly. "I won't take much of your time." He paused, staring at the floor for a moment. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, and glanced up at Eriksson.

"You like Major Harrison, Eriksson?"

"Sure. He's pretty cool."

Golan smiled. "I think he is, too. He's so smart, man, knows his shit like nobody else, but he's never boring. I like history, I'm into that shit, you know I am. But even if I fucking hated it, he'd make me love it."

Eriksson smiled, laughing a little. Golan could be pretty good with words sometimes. "True enough."

Another pause. "Did you know he's writing a history of the school?"

Eriksson shook his head. "Nah."

"He is," Golan nodded. "And he's working through it right now. Probably be publishing it pretty soon. He's saying he might be sending a complete draft of it off to the printers before we graduate this summer."

"Sounds good," Eriksson said with a shrug. "Sorry, man, but why should I care about this?"

Golan leaned forward just a little more, lowering his voice. "He's got this section in it, man. A footnote in one of the chapters. And he's got some stuff in it that…" Golan trailed off, looking away. He laughed. "Dude, it isn't true at all. But Major Harrison, somehow or another, he's convinced himself it is. And if he publishes this book with that little sub-chapter in it, man, he's gonna look like a fuckin' idiot." Golan paused again. "Okay, Eriksson. Here's… here's what I need. There's some cadets at this school, guys I know. We really respect Major Harrison, you know? We admire him. And we don't wanna see him embarrassed, especially not with his first book."

Another pause. "Eriksson, there's a letter, okay? In his office, in the second drawer on the left side of his desk. Supposedly it's a letter from one Remington grad to another; it talks about some fucking-" Golan laughed again- "_secret society_ of cadets!" He shook his head, laughing again. "Well, that letter's bullshit, man. I know. I've done as much research as Major Harrison has, and that letter's a fake. You know some guy wrote a letter to the London police way back, claiming he was Jack the Ripper? A while later they proved it was fake. This is the _same thing_."

Quietly, Golan looked intently at Eriksson and began to speak. "I need you to do me a favor, man. You don't have to if you don't want to. But me, some guys I know, we're trying to help Major Harrison and there's only one way we can do it. If you can find an excuse to get out of the barracks next Thursday, I think you'll find the door on the far south end of Kusinis Hall unlocked. Janitor forgets to lock that one sometimes, you know. Go up to Major Harrison's classroom, go in his office, second drawer, left side of the desk. He keeps his papers for his book in there. That's where the letter is. You'll know it when you see it. Trust me."

Raising his eyebrows, the dark-haired Eriksson looked at Golan. "So… you want me to _destroy_ this letter?"

Eyes suddenly jumping wide with alarm, the blond held up his hands. "No!" He lowered his voice, took a moment to calm himself. "No, don't do that. It's, uh, better if you bring it to me. Next Thursday's my shift for duty down at the TAC office. I'm gonna be out of the barracks that night. My room'll be open. Just leave it in the drawer for me."

A long pause. Golan looked curiously at Eriksson again. "So. You think you can do it?"

"Sure."

Golan looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yep. Sure. I'll do it."

The blond cadet grinned, taking his textbook in one hand and getting up. "Great, man. Really, I appreciate it."

"No problem."

Golan paused at the door. "Oh, uh, you do this, man? Some guys at this school are gonna be real happy with you. Just think about that, okay?"

**XX**

The following Thursday, after sitting at a desk and pretty much just shooting the bull with Captain Finch and Master Gunnery Sergeant Thompson for an hour and a half, Nicholas Golan gathered up his notebooks, binder and textbooks, stuffed them in his backpack and headed back to Singer Hall barracks. His cramped- but single bed- third-floor room was indeed open. Golan had deliberately forgotten to close it completely when he'd left for 3rd Mess formation at 1700. Since only other Battalion Staff cadets occupied the narrow confines of the 3rd floor of Singer Hall, little mistakes like this, rare as they were, usually went unnoticed and unpunished.

It had been an exciting day. Ordinary in all respects, except for one thing, and that one thing was enough to keep the blond teenager practically bouncing on his feet from Reveille to clear through the rest of the day.

And as he entered his room, closing the door shut behind him, Golan's heart-rate picked up as he crossed the room and flicked on the lamp at his desk. Its low buzz filled the otherwise silent room- silent, that is, except for the Battalion XO's contraband stereo thumping down the hall.

Finally, unable to take the suspense any longer, the blond seventeen-year-old reached down to his simple, aging wooden desk and pulled the drawer out. He saw a single white envelope sitting on top of his notebooks and paper, and as he picked the envelope up and looked at it, Golan smiled.

The envelope was there. Eriksson had done just what Golan had asked. Inside were the Remington graduate's letter, and a draft of Major Harrison's chapter on Honor Corps. Too curious not to, the blond took out and unfolded the draft sheet and began to read.

**XX**

_On the outside, an extremely short haircut is rarely something that draws positive attention. It makes people nervous, especially when the individual concerned is a physically fit young man. People will think of rebels, of "skin-heads", neo-Nazis and fascists, individuals with little discipline, no respectable occupation or role in society. No matter what term is used, what label applied, the connotations of a next-to-nonexistent haircut are nearly always negative in the civilian world._

_In military culture, however, the complete opposite is true. New recruits of all services go through basic training having their hair routinely cut down to nothing, and some keep it that way even after graduation. Drill instructors and special forces operatives will sometimes go for the look._

_And in the world of the military school cadet, the story is much the same. Among cadets, teenage boys who in most cases are not happy about being there, the common sight is someone trying to break haircut regulations any way possible. To rebel against the rigidness of life at a military boarding school, to regain their lost freedom. Equally common is a cadet staying within regulations, his hair shorter than average but still plenty visible._

_But at many a military boarding school, there is a clear sense of pride among those boys who specifically ask the barber to cut their hair shorter than is even required. These are the rarest of the rare. The boys who have either accepted and even come to enjoy their new life despite being forced into it, and the volunteers- boys who actually asked and in some cases even fought to convince their parents to send them to a military boarding school._

_They wear their hair as short as possible, and even among the most disgruntled cadets it has a clear symbolism- embracement of the school's military lifestyle. The shorter your haircut, the more dedicated you are. Though unpopular among the rebellious and dissatisfied cadets that comprise a good portion of the Corps of Cadets, these boys are often left alone, for a few reasons._

_They are often in good shape, able and willing to defend themselves in a scuffle. Those that are not have friends willing to help, as such boys all know one another. They are loyal to their school and to the highly-charismatic war hero, the colonel or general who typically leads it- some to the point of fanaticism. But at a Tiverton, Rhode Island school called Remington Military Academy, there is one other reason._

_The boys with the shortest hair are, more often than not, members of the Honor Corps._

_Rumors, myths and barracks legends of the Corps have existed for most of RMA's history. They are said to be the unofficial, ghostly MPs of the school, "policing" the barracks and dealing with the most rebellious and unrepentant boys. Coming up with ways to get rid of them, make them examples, 'encouraging' everyone else to shape up._

_One of the most persistent rumors is that Honor Corps are always among the top 10% of a given graduating class. The most physically and mentally fit, militarily and academically proficient, loyal cadets in the school. They are connected, influential, and each new generation of alumni brings them greater strength in the world outside of Remington._

_If one assembles enough of the pieces, lists each rumor and each claimed fact, a remarkably detailed picture of a supposedly-nonexistent organization appears. The first rumors date back to 1941, when-_

"Fucking _bull_shit," Golan hissed, tearing his eyes away and crumpling the paper. Major Harrison was a good man, but he was _too_ fucking smart for his own good. And for somebody who was as accepted and liked by the cadets at Remington as he was, Harrison sure didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. Or when not to ask questions.

The blond shoved the draft paper of Major Harrison's book chapter in his pocket and pulled the actual letter itself, dated September 1st, 1957, out of the envelope. It was pretty interesting, and unsettling when you looked at how much crap this Class of 1951 grad had gone and written down. Definitely against the rules, and at the same time a nice piece of source material for somebody writing a book.

But suddenly, with no source, with no physical evidence to show or present, Major Harrison would be left without a choice. He'd have to cut his brief, mostly-speculative but _much_ too accurate 'history' of the Honor Corps out of the upcoming "_Years of Change, Years of Growth: A History of Remington Military Academy 1973-2013_".

Because it would just be _unprofessional_, sourcelessly talking about something that already didn't exist.

The boys attending Remington today liked Major Harrison. He made history class interesting, made it personal. He could make you feel what it was like to have been on General Lee's staff when he commanded the Army of Northern Virginia- the endless supply, manpower, and strategic problems you would've faced. He could tell you not just how many bullets an AK-47's magazine carried or how fast and far it could shoot- the facts- but the personal stuff. Its toughness, its near-flawless reliability. How it inspired confidence, gave strength and courage to entire armies of rebels and professional fighting men alike. The personal things, what you'd have seen, thought and felt if you were actually _there_.

But the old men who had gone to Remington in years past, men like Golan's father- they _didn't_ know Major Harrison. There were wealthy, successful, influential men among them, men who simply wouldn't care how nice a guy Major Walter Harrison was if he published a book with lying, slanderous bullshit in even one chapter of it. Some of these men would not be amused, would be _much_ worse than just not amused. Losing his job here so abruptly would be a personal loss for Major Harrison, and a blow for his career. Yet the boys had been deadlocked when a Formation was called; nobody could make up their minds about what action to take.

So together with a fellow Battalion Staff member, a boy named St. Esprit, Nicholas Golan had acted instead.

He'd asked a friend of his, a potential candidate for initiation before the end of the year, to help. All the help that was provided to him in turn was a few unlocked doors, courtesy of an arranged extra paid week's vacation for Mr. Gordon, one of the janitors. Both individuals had come through magnificently.

**XX**

Puzzlingly, though, when Golan paid him a visit that night just before "Taps" and thanked him, Eriksson declined the offer to "meet some guys I know," as Golan had put it. He'd been polite in saying no, but hadn't really given a reason. Why _did_ he say no, though? Golan knew Eriksson was a smart guy, as smart as he was. Eriksson _had_ to know what the blond had 'really' been offering him there.

How could _anybody_ say no to that?


	2. Chapter 2- The Vigils

**Chapter 2- The Vigils**

* * *

Assignments, successfully carried out, were often used as… tests for the deemed-worthy. A final, sure-fire way of making certain that they had the right stuff. Met all the criteria.

And yet _this_ time, somebody had declined. Odd, unfortunate, but hardly a big deal. Eriksson was not an idle talker; there was no reason to worry about him saying anything. So he'd go his way and Golan would go on being friends with him. But Golan and his *other* friends would go their way, and find someone else.

They would go on looking out for this school, being its last line of defense. And someday, when enough support was gathered among the alumni and enough friendly voters existed on the Board of Trustees, the girls' barracks would be quietly done away with. Those still here would be passed through, but no more would come in behind them. And that would be that. Tradition would have its say again.

Letting girls in had been a desperate measure due to falling enrollment in the Vietnam era, but it had never amounted to much. Female cadets were few, and the need for a separate barracks and all the upkeep that demanded was at least as much as the tuition and board money they brought in. With the school on stronger financial footing again- even with the PR crap going on now- there was little reason to keep it up much longer.

Nicholas Golan stripped, wrapped a towel about his waist, and headed off to the showers. He fake-lunged at Lucas Craig as they passed in the hallway, and laughed when the other boy jumped.

Craig might have been Cadet Colonel and Battalion Commander, but he was also in some deep shit. At an emergency meeting called yesterday, one week after those nosy motherfuckers from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service- the goddamn Navy Department's _cops_, for Chrissakes!- had finally left and Lieutenant Colonel Tanner resigned, the BC had been put in the hot seat in the middle of the room and got ripped a new one for the better part of an hour.

**XX**

The boys were all furious.

"You mother_fucker_."

"Idiot."

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"Gray armband right there in your _closet_, are you _outta_ your fuckin' _mind_?"

Golan, just back from attending the ceremony for his father's promotion to Brigadier General in the US Air Force, led the charge as the anger and frustration, the hisses of annoyed and pissed-off boys, filled the dimly-lit room.

"I can't fucking _believe_ we backed this shit with Sanders, guys," he said. "Look, I'll be the _first_ one who says girls got no fucking place here. It goes against tradition, and nobody honors that more than us. But, uh, what was she again, Craig? Your would-be _girl_friend?" He snorted in disgust, his tone and expression making it clear what he thought of that.

The blond stood up, pacing the room slowly. "We're at a moment of truth here, guys," he said quietly. "We got some choices to make. Because when a cop like DiNozzo comes in here, and challenges us like we're _nothing_-" He furiously kicked Craig's chair for emphasis- "There's _something_ wrong!"

The room was silent as Golan paced, the other boys all regarding him from their fold-up chairs. Craig didn't dare speak; it had been made pretty clear early on that his opinion wasn't going to be asked for much this Formation.

"And you know what, guys? I think I _know_ what's wrong here. It's us."

That broke the silence of the room, save for a single overhead light dark as a crypt. The other boys, even Craig, began whispering and talking, some sounding surprised, others angry, some agreeing with Golan's assertion and others disagreeing. One voice abruptly rose above the rest, addressing the blond now.

"How come _we're_ wrong, Golan?"

The blond seventeen-year-old held up a pair of fingers. "Two reasons."

He resumed his pacing, circling around Craig, in the space between him and the boys sitting in a ring around him a few feet away. Golan's mirror-shined leather dress shoes hardly made a sound as he walked.

"First, we've been stupid. I hate to say it but the guys before us have been, too. I don't care _how_ long it's been done; the gray armbands are _nothing_ but a mistake."

There were some more murmurs, some more quiet talking at that, but finally there were agreements and nods of assent.

"And second, we let one of our own take us _way_ outside what we do and what we're about." Golan glared at Craig again as he walked. "Honor Corps has been keeping the numbers on female cadets down for _years_, Craig. Trying to get the girls' barracks closed. And now, thanks to _you_, one of them's killed herself." He paused, holding up his hands in a half-shrug. "Who knows what that could mean for us?"

"Sanders was not my fault-" Craig started, but Golan cut him off.

"And you had better be grateful _Caroni_ found out you'd lied to us before _I_ did!" the blond hissed furiously. He addressed the other boys again. "This shit is unacceptable, guys. We _never_ get involved in things like we just did. You guys _know_ that."

A boy sighed, frustrated. "You fucked with her just like the rest of us, Golan."

The blond nodded. "Yeah, I _did_, Porter. Because I thought the reason for it was legit. Look, guys- we can't afford this. We keep doing shit like we just did, letting ourselves get led into something, word is gonna spread. Cadets, staff- they'll all realize they don't have to take us seriously anymore. And Honor Corps will be history."

Golan made sure to pause there, giving each of the boys a few moments to take that in. To imagine what could happen if they didn't correct their mistakes now.

"Now we can _handle_ the news about Cantor going to prison- and he's _gonna_ go to prison-his scholarship getting shut down, Lieutenant Colonel Tanner resigning. But we _can't_ fucking handle this group turning into some shitty little _gang_, which is apparently _exactly_ what Special-fucking-Agent DiNozzo thinks of us."

Golan paused once more; the blond continued to circle Craig, shifting his gaze between the nervous, sweating Battalion Commander and the others boys, all of whom were looking back attentively. Golan was a talker, was more eloquent than some teachers, and when he really got going you couldn't help but be impressed.

"You know what _I_ think? Maybe he's right." He paused again, taking in a breath.

"I move that the Honor Corps be disbanded."

There was a stunned, jaw-dropping silence that lasted perhaps ten seconds. Then the room spontaneously combusted into argument.

**XX**

"Come on, Craig," Golan laughed, turning back to him. He shook a finger in mock admonition. "No complaints, huh?"

Craig's face twisted in disgust. "Fucking _dick_."

He turned and walked away, but the blond just laughed and headed on to the showers. Craig was just mad because he'd been fired as Commandant. Nobody had really wanted him as Assigner, either, not after the shit he'd gotten Honor Corps in. As Golan had just not-so-subtly reminded him, Craig was lucky he'd been included at the Funeral. And that he was still "in" at all.

**XX**

The ceremony had been brief and none-too-fancy. They'd all met out in the woods, far away from the barracks yet still on the ground of the school, and gotten a campfire started. One by one, each boy had spoken his name, the date he'd become part of the finest cadet group ever to exist at Remington Military Academy, and offered his gray armband to the flames. Craig offered his with tears, offering a personal apology to the other boys. Even though he'd taken such exquisite pleasure in arranging for Craig to be fired as head of the last Honor Corps, Nicholas Golan also found himself tearful as he spoke his name, the date he'd never forget, and gave his own armband to the fire. The whole process took some thirty minutes. And when it was over and the boys scattered, silently returning to their barracks, the book was closed. The story had ended.

Honor Corps was gone.

**XX**

But Nicholas was feeling pretty good, in spite of all that. He didn't feel so bad about it now. The blond couldn't whistle a tune for shit, but had he been able to, he'd have whistled "Dixie" all the way to the shower. Hanging his towel up and turning on one of the showers, the lean blond stepped in and started using the soap bar, letting the water run through his hair- what little there was.

"Hey, Golan," Ryan St. Esprit said with a grin as he passed him and turned on one of the other showers. "You're a fucking asshole, man."

"Yep, I am," the blond teen agreed, smiling back. "And I just don't know any better."

They both grinned at each other and laughed. It was a pretty heady feeling, being the very last and yet also the very first of something. Being the Commandant and the Assigner, best friends who'd spent over a year working their way up and getting in place to take the job.

"Hey," St. Esprit said casually, "You really think they'll end up closing the girls' barracks?"

"Just a feeling," Nicholas replied, winking at his friend. He shrugged after a moment. "Look, man, it's _gonna_ happen. It just is. This place was all-male for fifty-five years before they let girls in. Doesn't matter what you think, or I think, it's about _tradition_, man. Boys-only is the way things are at places like this. It's the way it's always been. We _gotta_ respect that."

"Goddamn, boy, you even make speeches in the _shower_!" St. Esprit laughed, and Nicholas reached out and neatly smacked him on the back of the head. When the brown-haired boy smacked him back, Nicholas held up a hand. "Hey, hey! Wanna box tomorrow after class, instead of breaking one of our necks in here?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool. You hear me, though? What I said?"

"Yeah, man, you know I do."

Nicholas grinned. "Of course." He was not much of a boxer, but his father was constantly pushing him towards it- to get practice in before it became mandatory when he went to VMI. And besides, anything- even something you weren't too crazy about- was always better when you did it with your best friend.

The blond found it easy to feel good right now, and he could see clearly that the new way of things was going to last a long time. The rules had changed, new guidelines and a code hammered out and memorized. Clearer parameters were set for what kind of shit you did and didn't do, what was and what wasn't appropriate. And above all, the Honor Code was in full effect within though you could make exceptions as needed without.

_A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, nor tolerate those who do_.

It was the old West Point code, the one held sacred by boys and men alike for generations. It took the boys and made them into men, and once they had grown it guided them for the rest of their lives.

The President of RMA, Brigadier General Donald West, US Army retired, had a saying he was fond of. "Men may make history, but we make the men." Behind him in doing this stood a cabal of his most loyal admirers. They were making a transition right now, going through some challenging times. But when it was all over, the General's truest followers would still stand firmly behind him- whether he even knew they existed or not.

The blond smiled, carefree as he rubbed shampoo through his hair. It was good weather out, a calm, easygoing night. Perfect for the two teenagers' current moods. Golan and St. Esprit had united to conquer the Honor Corps, and they'd done it. Within the halls of Remington, that was like taking over the world.

**XX**

The blond smiled again as he lay down on his bed five minutes later, hands folded behind his head, staring up at the slanted ceiling.

Nicholas Golan had seen DiNozzo when he was here on post, though the agent hadn't recognized him. The blond boy had almost done a double-take after the stories he'd heard from his father- what an insolent shitbag he'd been when he'd first come to Remington as the worst kind of FNG cadet. But despite looking quite a bit like his father, Nicholas had gone unrecognized when he'd passed by DiNozzo in the front entrance room of Collins Hall.

From what Craig had said- he'd been plenty eager to tell the other boys everything said between himself, Special Agent DiNozzo and his partner when they'd barged into his room a second time, something Golan understood his being upset about- this man had no idea what Honor Corps was about. No understanding of its purpose. Some people, for all their education and experience, simply could not understand.

But the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. The Honor Corps was gone, and the alumni would surely bitch on all the official-yet-unofficial channels. But they would probably quiet down, accept the new state of affairs, when they saw what a help the boys in cadet gray were doing at Remington, right now. How brilliantly clever they were under the new leadership, how well-informed and well-organized. How much they were doing to help the school through the difficult times it was facing.

Major Harrison was just one example, one feather in the cap of the new boys running things. He didn't know it, would never understand it, but he was being _protected_. That letter would be made to disappear, vanished like smoke blown away in the wind. It wasn't being done because Nicholas Golan was a loser, desperate to prove anything or be a part of something. It was being done out of respect for Major Harrison, for his reputation. It was being done for his own good.

In Nicholas' opinion, this whole business with Frederick Cantor murdering John Wallace had the guys, the alumni, the staff, pushing panic buttons for nothing. A mentally imbalanced old man had killed a young man who was threatening to try 'exposing' an organization that didn't exist. He had no evidence, he had nothing. Not so much as a fucking Post-It note.

Even if he'd gone public and started carrying on, the few waves Wallace would've made and the problems he would've caused would not have amounted to much. Anybody who seriously thought going to the papers about Honor Corps without a shred of evidence was going to make any difference was just kidding himself.

Yet that didn't mean there was nothing to be worried about, as much as Nicholas hated to admit it. One Remington graduate murders another in an argument over the school. A female cadet commits suicide on campus. Two dead altogether, one killed by the third. Not exactly good PR. It could've been worse, though, and all the guys knew it. That had been a key part of the armbands being burned. They were the only physical proof of Honor Corps, and using them had been a horrific mistake.

But they were gone now. Things were going to be different from now on. The days of carelessly revealing one's name and face to a targeted cadet were over. Things were going to be a lot more subtle. A lot smarter. And _far_ more effective.

**XX**

_We're gonna be changing the rules about those fuckin' jocks now, too_, Nicholas thought with smug satisfaction. Nobody would be off-limits anymore. If one approach didn't work, you just used another. You didn't give up and start giving special treatment to people who didn't deserve it. That set a bad example, and undermined the simple beauty of all good military academies- no cliques, no privileged elite. Everyone was more or less equal.

There would be limits, though only a few. There'd be no more incidents like Christine Sanders. Running scum out of the school was fine, but dead cadets was bad PR. And besides, it was unnecessary. Half the time, you could get the lousiest kids expelled if you arranged for their room to be turned upside down at just the right moment. You didn't need to kill anybody, and certainly not over trivial, would-be romantic crap. That was a total no-no and the time Lucas Craig pulled that shit would be the one and only.

Word would have to go out to the alumni, too. There could be no more tolerance for men like Frederick Cantor. You couldn't tolerate that kind of shit. There was little hope of controlling the actions of every single living graduate or former cadet- nor was there much point in trying. But the ring-wearing graduates needed to know: If you murder someone on 'behalf' of RMA for the weak reasons Cantor did, you had better have money for a good lawyer. Because the alumni will not be backing you up.

In fact, it would be better if killing was, altogether, declared off-limits- really, you'd have _thought_ that went without saying. It was morally wrong, and when the connection to RMA was discovered it would make the school look bad. There was no need to kill anyone on the rare occasion some guy thought he was gonna make trouble for the school. You'd just call in favors, use connections, and make the man look as ridiculous as possible. Stack the deck against him and eventually whoever it was would just give up and go fuck off somewhere. Much easier for all involved.

There was Nicholas' father, though. Nicholas knew sooner or later he'd have to answer to him, explain what he'd done and why. But if he'd been able to sway all the other current members of Honor Corps his way, surely Mark Golan would understand- and in turn help to persuade the other Honor Corps alumni. And besides, that was something to worry about later, not now. That was tomorrow.

Some staff members- a rare few- had the sense to appreciate the "influence" certain boys seemed to have. The way that all kinds of juicy intel just seemed to fall into their arms. And those rare few could expect the help of those boys at a time like this, with the school's reputation taking a blow. A storm lay ahead, but it would be weathered, however difficult it was to do it. Captain Finch, for one, was a smart enough man that he'd actually talked to Nicholas alone the other night. In a very roundabout way, he'd affirmed their professional, yet friendly relationship, and… very vaguely… asked Nicholas for help.

The blond grinned as he gazed up at the ceiling of his room in the dark. Difficult times like this were tailor-made for smart, well-organized cadets who loved Remington. You could get quite a lot in return if you showed them you really could offer them something. And Nicholas Golan could. He _would_ help. His friends- and defeated rival- would help.

The Vigils would help.

* * *

**A/N: The title is Latin for "Always Vigilant", an appropriate one for the new secret society at Remington Military Academy in this AU. NCIS' Season 12: Episode 14 "Cadence" was too short to really explore what it was dealing with in any detail. The workings of any military school or college, especially one with a secret society, are not ever going to be able to be explained in less than fifty minutes. Pat Conroy's book "The Lords of Discipline" covers similar material as "Cadence" and does an infinitely better job.**

**Nicholas Golan is an OC, but his father is the cadet named Mark Golan who berates DiNozzo and Piggy during PT and appears in the gym during a second flashback. The second appearance reveals Golan as a member of Honor Corps. I kind of liked the idea of Golan's son going to Remington at the time DiNozzo returns there as a graduate for the first time, and being a member of Honor Corps just like his father was. Also, those of you who've read Robert Cormier's "The Chocolate War" will have recognized a few things in this story.**


End file.
